Huis Clos
by thestylus01
Summary: Leroy Jethro Gibbs and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day


Huis Clos, or Leroy Jethro Gibbs and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

by the stylus

* * *

Disclaimer: All characters are the propery of their creators. The author makes no profit from this work.

* * *

A/N: Just a little bit of nonsense. Blame Elflordsmistress. I do.

* * *

"No."

"But, Boss--"

"DiNozzo, there's no way you're interviewing Maura Hernandez tomorrow."

"But _she_ slapped _me_."

"Which is exactly why you're not interviewing her." How DiNozzo could pout and leer at the same time was a complete mystery that he had no interest in solving. His Senior Field Agent pushed off of Gibbs's desk with a sigh and trudged back across the bullpen.

He reached down for his coffee and sighed himself, finding the cup empty. He pitched it toward his wastebasket. And watched as it bounced off the lip and hit the floor, its top skittering across the carpet as the dregs of his coffee dribbled out.

"Shit," he muttered. As he rose to retrieve it, his knees creaked and popped. They'd been aching all day. It was probably going to rain.

"Gibbs!"

He jerked up at the exclamation, banging his head sharply against the underside of his desk. "Goddamn it. What?" he growled, ignoring the hurt look on Abby's face.

"I've got something on the Hopkins case!"

He eased himself back into his chair. Abby was grinning and waving a printout that she thrust under his nose. He waved her off.

"Send it to Fornell."

"What?"

"I said--"

"You said, 'Send it to Fornell.' But why?"

"Not our case any more."

Abby's face fell. He knew how she felt. He'd been livid when Jen had called him up to her office to announce that they were handing the case off, but she'd just stared at him with her steely Director gaze-- the one he was coming to hate. And despite the fact that Hopkins was just going to be a number for the FBI, one among many, she'd refused to consider even joint jurisdiction.

She hadn't even had the good grace to get angry when he baited her. Instead, she'd been infuriatingly calm and not a little bit patronizing. "I'm sorry, Jethro. I've already talked to my counterpart. You've burned way too many bridges--they don't think you'll share information."

"Jen--"

She'd held up a hand to cut him off. "Unless you can tell me something I don't already know, I'm not going to stick my neck out on this one."

And that had been that. Even when he broke down and said "please." He was pretty sure she'd had a smug half-smile on her face as he left her office, though he hadn't turned back to look.

So Abby's continued whining wasn't going to change anything.

"But I have this great idea for a new way to analyze…" she trailed off. "You don't care."

"I care," he protested, but he could hear the apathy in his own voice.

"You don't."

"Abs, just send the info to the FBI. And you can tell 'em about your new analysis thing, but we're not running a joint investigation."

Her lower lip protruded. "But it's _my_ idea."

"Then save it."

"Fine." She plodded away, even her pigtails seeming to droop.

He turned back to the open document that stared balefully at him from his computer screen, the source of today's second encounter with the Director--or, more accurately, Cynthia. Apparently harassing him about his overdue case reports wasn't important enough to merit a personal contact. After indulging in a brief moment of self-pity, he set his fingers on the keyboard. Just in time for the screen to go dark.

"McGee!"

"Yeah, Boss," his agent said, so quickly that it all sounded like one word.

"It's gone." He pointed at the screen.

"Again?"

"Yeah, again." He'd given up trying to keep the scorn out of his voice.

"I'm sorry, Boss." Leaning over to try to revive the computer McGee gently shouldered Gibbs out of the way. He let the casters on his chair carry him backward as McGee's fingers began a rapid staccato tapping.

Nothing happened. "McGee?"

"I… I don't know." The uncertainty was uncharacteristic from him here, in front of a computer. "This shouldn't be happening."

"But it is." He regarded his own reflection as McGee contorted himself underneath the desk. "Could it have anything to do with the doohickey you put in the thing last week? What?" McGee's reply was muffled.

"It shouldn't have. I mean, I just updated your BIOS and installed more RAM. And then I reconfigured your firewall settings. It shouldn't have had any effect on the operation of…" McGee shook his head. "I don't know what's wrong. I'll fix it, though, Boss."

"See that you do." He wasn't going to get his reports done without the computer. Which meant that the Director wasn't going to be happy. Which meant that it was highly unlikely that his day would be getting any better.

"Gibbs." Ziva approached from the elevator.

"What?"

"I would like to interview Maura Hernandez tomorrow."

"No."

"Why not? It was not me she slapped, after all, but Tony."

Which didn't mean it hadn't been Ziva's fault. Sometimes those two were worse than children. "Not gonna happen."

She stood implacably in front of him. She wasn't quite pouting, but it was clear that she wasn't happy, either.

"Ow," he muttered as McGee, flailing under his desk, caught his shin with a shoe.

"Sorry, Boss."

He pushed himself out of his chair. "Going for coffee."

As he moved toward her, Ziva stepped neatly to the side, blocking his path.

"Move," he ordered. When she did not, he inquired, "Something the problem, Officer David?"

"I would like to conduct the interview. I have a great deal of experience interrogating suspects and I feel that my talents in this area are being underused."

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"'Cause I said so. Now, move." She did, reluctantly, and he made it two more steps before Tony called out after him.

"Uh, Boss?"

"_What_, DiNozzo?"

"You can't go to the coffee place."

"I can _do_ anything I damn well please."

"No, really, you can't go to the coffee place. It's burning down."

"Right now? It's actively on fire?"

"That's what the news says."

"Did you double-check?"

"Well, no, but..." He lowered his head. "Doing it now, Boss. Yup, confirmed by the ABC and NBC affiliates, as well as ZNN. Gas line ruptured. No foul play suspected."

"Fine. Any reason I can't go to the cafeteria to get coffee that you know of?"

"Nope. None at all. No, siree."

"Actually..." Ziva hesitated.

"Spit it out, David."

"Well, I was just there to get an apple to go with my lunch and I overheard the ladies--"

"Lunch ladies. Freaky," DiNozzo sang under his breath. He shot him a glare.

"--say that they're running low. In fact, I think she said that they only have decaf."

He gave her a gimlet-eyed stare. "You mean to tell me there's no _caffeinated_ coffee anywhere in the building?"

Both of his agents wilted a little at his tone. And perhaps at his volume, since it had come out louder than he intended.

"Maybe the conference room?" She shrugged. "You know, it has been proven that dependence on caffeine actually diminishes one's functional capabilities because of the associated attentional peaks and valleys. Perhaps you should consider giving up coffee."

He was weighing exactly how to explain to her how little he cared about her health tips when something hit him in the head. He looked up quickly to find Cynthia standing at the railing, a smile on her face and her open hand still extended. There was a box of Darjeeling at his feet.

"The Director says that perhaps you should try tea, Agent Gibbs."

He growled, which made her retract the smile and the hand, before he kicked the box against the wall. And then stalked off to the vending machine. A soda was a poor substitute, but better than Jen's insipid tea.

He inserted two coins and pressed, but nothing happened. After hitting the change return, he tried again with the same result. Finally, he noticed the red numbers flashing at him in the display. And delivered a swift strike to the machine with the heel of his hand. Sixty-five cents for a damn can of Coke was ridiculous.

"Uh, Agent Gibbs?" He hadn't realized anyone else was in the hall, but he found an agent behind him who looked like he was fresh out of high school. There was a quarter in his outstretched hand. "You can have it," he said, nervously, shrinking like a dog who knows he's about to be struck. He brushed past the kid, ignoring the quarter. It wasn't worth it now.

* * *

And on it went, a day that seemed to have no end. He spent the afternoon with his team combing the woods near where a Marine's body was found, only for the autopsy to reveal that there had been no foul play. "Bad luck, I'm afraid," Ducky had said, pointing out the previously undetected congenital deformation of their decedent's heart. "Nothing more." Which didn't mean there wasn't more paperwork to do as a result. And his computer still wasn't working, though McGee swore it should be running perfectly.

To top it all off, DiNozzo had developed a nasty rash after his encounter with the local flora and fauna, so he'd spent several hours listening to everyone--McGee, David, Abby, Ducky, a passing Agent from Legal--suggest increasingly outlandish home remedies while his Senior Field Agent whined like a two year-old with chicken pox. Little wonder, then, that he'd been in the elevator as the clock hit five, leaving his astonished team to muse about the early departure without him being required to listen.

Basement. Boat. Bourbon. Maybe even Bach. Anything to shake off the thousand irritations of the day which were scrabbling like insects under his skin. Just the sound of his own footsteps on the steps leading down into the darkness were soothing.

Until... "Shit." He contemplated the splinter that protruded from his thumb and then the offending section of the handrail. Tugging the small shard of wood free with his teeth, he sucked on the digit to stop the bleeding. It figured. It had been that kind of day. He picked up a hammer; he'd been wanting to hit something for hours.

* * *

He'd only hit the non-splintered thumb twice when he heard the heels in his hallway. It wasn't hard to figure out who they belonged to-- only one woman knew him well enough to let herself in and wore shoes that ridiculous.

"Why are you here, Jen? And don't tell me you just came by to check up on me."

"I just came by to check _on_ you."

"Why?"

"There was a rumor going around that you were cranky."

"I'm always cranky."

"Crank_ier_."

He continued working as she skeptically regarded a mason jar full of hardware, finally emptying it on the workbench and sloshing in a measure of bourbon. She perched on the edge of a step. "Want to talk about it."

"No."

"Might help," she said mildly.

"Won't." He could still see her face in her office that morning, telling him that the investigation had been handed off. It had been closed and blank. The Director. "You here to tell me I have to play nice with others?"

She made a small choking sound but didn't answer, giving him time to realize that his words could be taken two ways. He was glad he didn't blush easily. He took a long drink of his bourbon and watched surreptitiously as she did the same, her head tipped back to expose the long column of her throat. She settled back with her glass cradled in her hand, seemingly content to just watch him work.

He wasn't sure how much time passed as he pottered around the frame. For the first time all day, things were going right, and he allowed himself to enjoy the mindless rhythm of the work. When he did finally look up, it was to find that he was no longer being watched. Shaking his head, he crossed the basement, taking the glass from her hand. She stirred but didn't wake.

"Jen. Jen," he repeated more loudly.

"Hmm?" She came awake quickly, blinking rapidly. "Sorry."

"Well, that explains how you managed to stay quiet so long."

She shot him a half-hearted glare. "I'd forgotten how funny you were."

"Go home, Jen. I hear you've got a perfectly good bed." He reached a hand down to her.

She took it but didn't move. "And you? Planning to get any sleep?"

"Gonna work on the boat some more." He tugged her up, but she was still not entirely awake and tilted forward, placing a hand against his chest to steady herself. He could feel the warmth of it through his t-shirt, spreading along the length of her slim fingers. Unbidden, his earlier irritation rose and he dropped her hand.

If she was startled by his abrupt gesture, she did a good job of hiding it. After a long look, she collected her purse and coat, she turned to leave. As he listened to her footsteps ascend the stairs, he retrieved his hammer and resumed the work he'd been doing.

And promptly hit his thumb. Again-- and harder. "Goddamit," he swore, loud enough to make the basement walls echo faintly. Above his head, Jen's footsteps paused.

"Seriously, Jethro, are you sure you're all right?" She peered down at him from the landing.

"Go home, Jen," he growled. He didn't want to be pacified or comforted.

"Are you bleeding?" Now that she mentioned it, his eyes went back to his thumb, which was bleeding freely. Well, damn. "Where are your bandaids?"

He rolled his eyes and reached for the roll of duct tape that sat on the workbench as she descended.

"Don't even think about it," she said in a tone that brooked no nonsense. "You'll get blood poisoning from that unsanitary tape and then I'll be forced to transfer you to the Camp Lejeune field office on general principle."

"I'm not the one whose hair doesn't do well in the humidity."

"No, you're the one who can't stand mosquitoes." She fished out the first aid kit that sat, mostly untouched, in the same place as always and briskly wrapped sterile gauze around his thumb, securing it with tape. Her touch seemed to linger over the tape a bit longer than was necessary, but her face was hidden by the curtain of her hair and it had been a long time since he felt comfortable assuming anything about how she felt.

"Think I'll live, Doc?" She gave him a wary half-smile.

"Seems likely. But maybe it's time to put the tools down for the evening."

"I don't need a mommy," he scoffed.

"Sure about that?" she inquired, mildly. He realized was she still cupping his left hand.

"I'm sure." When he started to tug it away, she merely tightened her grip.

"Good. I'm not interested in being one."

"No? Aren't you going to tell me to eat my vegetables and share my toys?"

She released his hand, and he felt a thrill of satisfaction at finally having penetrated her impassive facade, even if it had taken all day. "I'm not going to apologize for doing my job."

"Fine by me."

He could almost hear the gears grinding in her head as she searched for a way to get through to her recalcitrant lead agent. He was sure she'd set herself a task: perk up Gibbs. There was probably an entry on her BlackBerry.

But neither one of them had ever been much for talking about what bothered them—and what was he going to say, anyway? "McGee kicked me, and then Ziva and Tony badgered me incessantly…" Unlikely.

"Jen, go hom—" Well, he thought as her mouth covered his, that was admittedly an approach that had worked in the past. It was a hot, hard little kiss that gentled as he relaxed his stiff stance and parted his lips. When he responded, her mouth opened under his and she curved her body into him in a way that left no space between them. His good hand came up to tangle in her hair while he scraped the bandaged thumb over her hip.

Finally, needing air, he pulled back. Her pupils were wide and her cheeks flushed, and he could feel her chest moving against his own. Her suit was creased, though that had more to do with her impromptu nap on the stairs than his ministrations. She was rumpled, wanton—a far cry from the woman he'd faced across a desk.

But still—was this just a way to cross something off the Director's "to do" list? He was halfway through the breath he needed to speak when she beat him to it. "Jethro, for god's sake, just _shut up_."

As she leaned back in, he grinned against her lips. "Yes, ma'am."

* * *

An hour later he was tracing lazy spirals on the skin of her back as she set his alarm for far too early when she started.

"Hey," she said, rolling over to face him. "Is it true DiNozzo got a rash?"

"Yeah," he confirmed with a smirk. "And it's spreading."

* * *

Fin

(Complaints can be directed to the management.)

* * *


End file.
